The Art of Needing
by Thinkette
Summary: He would whisper it like a mantra. So alive, so human and so much a freak. He whispered it in disgust, in depression, in desperation, in adoration, in hatred, and in attempts to convince himself that he was a monster. No one should love him. No one.


Sasori was a peculiar man, Deidara decided as he looked at him, his eyes examining the other man's perfect face. Deidara was eccentric, but he was by no means stupid. It took forever for the two of them to get close enough as partners to get Sasori to leave the safety of his shell, Hiruko.

Now that Deidara thought about it, he realized that Sasori had many shells. He had the once human tank, Hiruko, he had his deadened flesh, he had his emotional barrier, his verbal firewall, his sarcasm, his deadly weapons. How the hell had the blond managed to go through all of that to the soft heart in his center?

Deidara's eyes softened. It took years as partners to finally find out about Sasori's past, the lies from his grandmother, the shattered picture frame of the parents he lost, the images of old lovers who scorned him.

The blond didn't blame Sasori one bit for his solitude, and he knew that happiness still existed in the redhead, it was just impossible to get out.

After Deidara learned about Sasori's parents, he made a vow that he would do what was best for the man regardless of the consequences. Many a time has the blond come back to the base bruised and bleeding. He accepted any mission that was available to Suna, and requested they be solos. He refused to drag his Danna to the hellhole that spawned his fear, that fabricated his views. Though Suna was a harsh place, fully equipped with the best shinobi, and the strongest weapons, Deidara went alone.

A piece of him didn't know why he risked his neck for his partner, but a much larger piece of him knew that it was because he loved him. It was because he lost his parents, and was a freak, a genetic mutation, a being void of adoration, and he didn't want Sasori to be that. He wanted to spark life into his eyes.

So, when Sasori began to experiment on him, he gave in. He held his arms out, biting his lip until it bled as Sasori tested his poisons and antidotes on him. He would bleed the blond, and then add in various toxins. He would give him nightmares, hallucinations, force him into comas and then revive him.

But, in a sick, sad way, Sasori knew he depended on him. Needed him. He found himself gazing at his comatose partner, and mumbling "Never leave me" in a barely audible, hoarse whisper. He would always panic when a poison took a hint longer to cure than he wanted, he would feel his heart beating audibly, so loud he thought that those in Konoha could hear.

He needed Deidara, needed him in a way that a puppy needs a master, needed love, affection, needed to see the lengths his partner went for him.

Eventually, he realized that most of all, he needed to see Deidara alive, breathing, happy, contradicting Sasori. He needed that irony, his depravity immense. One day, when Deidara was being tested on, Sasori ran his smooth, cold, dead hands over the blond's figure, muttering about how beautiful and artistic he was, how perfectly his body was created, and he realized he had to stop.

And he stopped.

Sasori knew he was playing God, or cheating God, or even just using God. It depended on the way you looked at it. He was creating something, he was creating something previously created from someone else, or he was just modifying something already created. He loved skin.

It was all about the skin. And sometimes, he would take Deidara's hand, warm and comforting and press it against his heart, desperate for human contact, thirsty for the touch of another being. "I'm alive".

He would whisper it like a mantra.

Alive.

Alive.

So alive, so human and so much a freak. He whispered it in disgust, in depression, in desperation, in adoration, in hatred, and in an attempt to convince himself that he was a monster.

And who had he to blame but himself? He would sometimes overexert his chakra to warm his body, making him look human. He felt human. And he'd look down at his beautiful partner, waiting for him to wake up, just waiting, only patient because he had eternity to waste, only impatient because Deidara didn't.

He didn't remember when they crossed the boundaries of partners, to friends, to lovers. He just remembered that the sex started before they realized they needed each other in that primal way, that absolutely ridiculous, human way that Sasori hated.

But he found that with the blond he didn't care. There was something so arousing when he realized that he could control Deidara with just one hand. With less than a hand. With one word. Command him and he would listen. Sasori memorized the landscape of his body, the depressions of his ribs, the valley of his hips, the smooth thighs, the languid arms.

He memorized his face, how it flushed when he bit his skin, how he groaned, and gasped. How he would grind his hips and how he would call out for his Danna, his master, the puppeteer loved his power. Deidara, this man, so strong, so beautiful, his.

What had he done to deserve him? He wondered if fate owed him, he wondered if he did a good deed once in his life and it was repayment, he wondered if it was to make up for losing his humanity, his parents, his mind.

He didn't care.

In those minutes, that he stretched to hours, he felt alive. Deidara would slip his hands up to his shoulders, down, to his heart. He would close his eyes and breathe in time with the beat, he would rock his body to it, would come to it.

Obedient little pet.

Sometimes, Deidara would cry, it would hurt so much, his body, lithe and abused. He would sometimes scream himself hoarse and Sasori would comfort him.

Other times, the redhead took his anger out on him. Beat him bloody, and blue. Swollen eyes and split lips and he would scream how the blond was worthless. He would sob how he thought he would leave him. Would admit his fears, and hug him close, telling him never to die. And Deidara didn't care.

He didn't care.

Because somewhere, between the stoic face of his Danna, somewhere, between the beatings, and the force of his sexual penetrations, somewhere, between the sorrow and monstrosity of their relationship and the desperation and clinging to one another they realized they loved each other.

Each bruise, each emotional gasp, each broken cry, they would love.

Two freaks, two bodies, two men.

He was a man. Just a man, Sasori was. So small, so insignificant in the scheme of World and so important to Deidara. So wonderful.

When he died, Deidara wandered the halls emotionlessly. His eyes gazing the walls, his hands unable to make art anymore, and only sculptures. He sifted through his days, once, finding an entire collection of paintings and sketches Sasori did. This one, the curve of Deidara's shoulders to the dip of his neck, his face, smiling, and sweet. This one, a sketch of him crying. This one, a full body nude portrait, Deidara spread out and begging in his features.

He would close his eyes and sneak into Hidan and Itachi and Pein's rooms at night, calling out Sasori's name and sometimes, they would take advantage of him, and other times, they'd just hold him, and tell him that he was gone, and that now, he was truly eternal.

Dead.

And then so was Deidara. And they realized they were the same. Death, the final eternity, life, the perfect fleeting moment.

A beginning, an end. Every story but a second, and every end but forever. And somewhere between the kisses, and their panting, and Sasori's desperate apologies and Deidara grasping at the older man's shoulders, screaming in pleasure, they realized that they were a piece of a continuous thread, a never ended scheme, the embodiment of what truly is All.

And they realized they needed each other, half monster, half man. In love, such a human thing, a thing they needed because they didn't see themselves as human.

And Deidara sat, glancing his master's face, and Sasori turned back, his peculiar face. And he reached over, and pulled the blond to his lap, and kissed him, hard, and desperate, then soft, and confident. Knowing, finally knowing the blond would never leave him. He followed him to death, followed him here, followed him forever.

Loving, something so human.

They were human. And in death, they were alive, too.

* * *

><p><strong>The beautiful cover photo has been provided by the fantastic VereniceDrugsong (icendiarydreams on DA) Go check out her art and like her picture! incendiarydreams . deviantart art SasoDei-The-art-of-needing-344985075**


End file.
